


Deducing the Detective

by DaringlyDomestic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 20:42:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5884501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This work will start off in a familiar way but is not intended to be a re-hashing of the show. It will deviate and become more interesting but I have to lay the groundwork. Please trust me (although, come to think of it, there is absolutely no reason you would)! I hope you enjoy.</p><p>Happy Reading!</p></blockquote>





	1. Nothing Ever Happens to Me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work will start off in a familiar way but is not intended to be a re-hashing of the show. It will deviate and become more interesting but I have to lay the groundwork. Please trust me (although, come to think of it, there is absolutely no reason you would)! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Happy Reading!

The cursor blinks on the screen. 

 _This is hopeless. What the hell does Ella think this will prove?_ John knows who he is. He just doesn’t like the person he’s become. A former army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and a hole where his left shoulder used to be. Disgusted with himself and his shattered life, John throws his head back and stares at the dingy damp ceiling. Great. He’s only been here a week and already Mrs. Ricoletti’s water pipes have burst…again. John pushes back from the desk and starts to pace, but even with his short legs, he can only get two strides in before having to about-face.  _Jesus!_ John wrenches his coat from its hook and angrily marches out into the hatefully sunny London afternoon. 

John has been wandering aimlessly for about an hour and it has not improved his mood. The sunny day has brought throngs of people eager to enjoy the unseasonably nice weather, but John does not want to enjoy the day. His leg hurts and  _what’s the point, anyway? It’s not like he is going to start taking a daily stroll just so he has something to write about in the stupid blog that Ella insists he keep even though nothing remotely interesting ever happens to him. Does she expect people to read his blog? Hope not. That would be one big disappointment._  The thought brings a small wry smile to John’s face. 

 _God, what day! Fumbling around London like a retiree! Where the hell am I anyway?_  John looks around. He can see the distinctive roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital just a few blocks away.  _Of course - Postman’s Park._  His legs had automatically carried him to his old stomping grounds. Looking at the familiar hospital sends a pang of longing and regret shooting through John’s chest.  _It doesn’t matter,_  John thinks to himself.  _That’s done now._  He should be moving on and finding a new way to spend his time.  _No one wants a surgeon with shaking hands._  John tucks his chin to his chest and walks determinedly away from Bart’s. There are still quite a few people milling around the park, but John easily avoids them without raising his gaze. He is almost safely out of the park, when his ears register a voice calling after him. “John! John Watson!” 

Ashamed to have been caught out but resigned to the practiced polite conversation that he will be expected to have (he is British after all), he turns and seeks out the source of the call. A short, squat, brown-haired man with round glasses waves at him. He seems so familiar but John can’t place him. The man seems to realize this and is not put off at all.  

“Mike. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together. Remember?” the man explains.  

“Yes, of course. Mike, how are you?” 

John had hoped he would be able to get away with the usual generic banter and be able to quickly take his leave. No such luck. The conversation is fairly one-sided as John doesn’t have much to contribute, but Mike doesn’t seem to mind. He always was a talker, especially back in their med school days. And the most amazing thing was that he could talk about anything. Literally anything. It used to be a game they played when they drank. The group would shout out random topics and Mike would seamlessly transition through every single one. Come to think of it, John can’t remember him ever missing. As Mike chatters on, John realizes he has missed this. Missed Mike. John had lost contact with most everyone after he joined up, but he hadn’t realized how much he missed it all.  _Well, most of it._  He certainly hadn’t missed Harry’s drinking. 

Mike pauses for breath and seems to realize that John is balancing most of his weight on his cane. “John, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… Here, let’s sit.” And there it is. The awkwardness and uncertainty that most people have when confronted with his disability. For a moment, he had been back at Bart’s with Mike and had forgotten all about the war and the reasons he is no longer a part of it. Now, it’s all rushing back and he has to leave.  _Get out._  He can feel the panic coming.  _Oh God,_  he does not want to have a breakdown in the middle of the afternoon in a public park in front of a mate he hasn’t seen since university.  

“That’s alright, Mike. I actually have to be heading back. So good to see you.”  

John turns to leave, but Mike grabs his arm.  

“Alright, John. Where you living these days? Maybe we can get together later this week. Grab a pint.”  

The words barely register through the fog that is clouding John’s brain.  

“Yeah, sure. The army’s got me in a little bedsit now, but I’ll have to move soon. Can’t afford London on an army pension, and I’d be mental to even think about a flatshare. We’ll get together before I leave though, yeah?” 

This time John gets a few steps away before he hears Mike’s laugh. He wheels around, “What?”  

Mike shakes his head.  

“Sorry, it’s just that you’re the second person to say that to me today.”  

John, even mid-panic attack, cannot resist. “Who was the first?” 

* * *

 

 _What the HELL was I thinking,_ John wonders as his uneven tread and the thunk of his cane striking the floor reverberate along the dark deserted hallway. The mystery Mike offered had been enough to peel back the initial layers of panic, but John can feel it stirring. His unease and paranoia ratcheting up the tension until fear threatens to overtake him again. John has significantly slowed his pace, but Mike hasn’t noticed yet.  _Come on, Watson. Pull yourself together. It’s a fucking hospital. It’s seen much worse than the likes of you._ John takes a few steadying breaths and picks up the pace so that he is an appropriate distance behind when Mike turns and opens the door to one of the bigger basement laboratories. Steeling himself into the confident posture John picked up from his time in the army, he marches into the room. John doesn’t actually want to leave London and this bloke might be his ticket to stay. If he could just get a flatshare, he could afford it. Therefore, presentation is important and his first impression is John’s foremost thought as he enters the lab. Although he hardly believes it himself, John pulls off a confident but not quite cocky swagger. The image is only slightly ruined by the hitch in his stride.  

“Bit different from our day, Mike,” John notes with a grin.  

It certainly is. Everything has been digitized now.  _I’m not even sure I could use these machines._ John thinks with bitter irony.  _A man who still pecks away at his keyboard has no business in a lab like this._ The grin slides from his face. 

His discharge from the army and subsequent return to London have made John feel old. As he sweeps his eyes around the room again, John feels ancient. The cacophony of criticism in his head stops the moment his eyes lock on the silent man bent intently over a microscope.  _This must be him,_ John thinks with trepidation.  _Alright, Watson. You can do this. Just be your charming pre-war self. Make this work._ After a few more moments, John wonders if Mike is waiting for him to speak. But just as he clears his throat to begin, the surprisingly deep voice of the man in the corner issues a request.  

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?”  

Mike searches his pockets cheerfully and without any sign of surprise at the brazen non sequitur. The man has still not looked up from his work or acknowledged John’s presence in anyway.  

“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike replies. 

 _It’s the strangest thing. The black bitter fog that had been threatening to choke him all afternoon is gone as soon as the man speaks._ Emboldened by his unexpected lightness, John steps forward.  

“Here, use mine.”  

The man’s eyes finally swing away from the microscope and John is stunned by the sheer force of the intense, calculating gaze fixed on him.  

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  

A wave of wonder crashes over John as his brain catches up to the words the man has just spoken.  _How could he possibly know? Mike didn’t phone ahead._ Too stunned to respond properly, John manages to squeeze out a small noise of confusion.  

Without hesitation, the man launches into a manic explanation of his earlier deductions. John is so enthralled by his intelligence, that he barely notices the man has risen and pressed the borrowed phone back into his open palm. John can feel his control over the situation slipping away, and it is an oddly freeing feeling. He doesn’t mind being a step behind.  _No, he wouldn’t mind following this man at all._   

Later, John won’t recall his responses to any part of this conversation, but he will remember the man in vivid detail. The elegant curve of his spine as he leans over his work, the graceful swing of his hips as he rises from the stool and stalks towards John, and the searing intelligence that rips through every layer John has spent the last week building. It won’t occur to John until much later that he should have been offended. Now, he is doing his best to just keep abreast of the frantic flow of conversation. The man flounces out the door, and John feels his brain come back online.  

Suddenly, the man’s head reappears. With a cheeky wink, the daft bastard says, “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," before his curls whip back around the corner, and he is gone again with one final dismissal: "Afternoon!”  

Dumbstruck, John stares open-mouthed at Mike, who just shrugs.  

“Yeah, he’s always like that.”  

As they leave and part ways, John is only half-listening. His mind is still back in the lab replaying the conversation. He already knows he will go to Baker Street tomorrow. He already knows he will agree to move in, regardless of the state of the flat. He already knows he is in too deep and all it took was one look…one interaction with the mad genius. With Sherlock Holmes.

 

 


	2. Later That Evening...

“Hey, mate. We’re here.”  

Sherlock startles and fishes a few stray bills out of his coat pocket. He pushes all the crumpled bills he can find at the cabbie and is out the door before he can find out whether it covers the fare. The brick athletic building is bathed in blue light and Scotland Yard has taken over the entire parking lot.  _Lestrade must still be inside,_ Sherlock muses.  

He takes a few moments to look over the scene. There is a dark green station wagon parked in the far right corner of the lot. It is not a police vehicle, so it must have been here prior to the incident. But it’s parked too far from the building – clearly irrelevant. Several of the overhead lights are flickering… _Damn! There is too much going on out here and the Yarders are probably erasing most of the important evidence with their incompetence anyway._ Sherlock gives up and heads toward the front door.  

Sally Donovan must be in trouble again. She’s stuck working crowd control.  _Great. Sally is horrendous at the best of times. This should be remarkably unpleasant._ Flipping his coat collar up, Sherlock strolls purposefully toward the building. He is several steps from the door and already congratulating himself on not drawing Donovan’s attention when… 

"Oi, freak! You can’t go in there. It’s an active crime scene.”  

With a last hopeful look toward the building, Sherlock turns to face Donovan.  

“Really, Sally. Don’t you think I have more interesting things to do than stand around and do your job. Lestrade asked me to come. Or does it just bother you that I’m in the DI’s good graces and you are not? You should really think about keeping an overnight kit at Anderson’s if you’re going to keep staying there every time his wife is out of town. Or at least a change of clothes. If you want to stop getting miserable assignments you’ll have to get to work on time, and your flat is too far to allow you to go home, change, and get to the Yard before morning assignments are handed out.”  

Sally is shaking with fury and seems to consider hitting Sherlock. Thankfully, Lestrade exits the building at that moment.  

“Sherlock! What took so long? I thought you’d be inside the minute you arrived.”  

Sherlock spares Sally one last sneer and turns his back on the sergeant.  

“My apologies, Graham. I was held up by your top-notch perimeter team.”  

Sherlock’s sharp voice is dripping with sarcasm. Lestrade visibly flinches and corrects him.  

“It’s Greg!”  

Sherlock just shrugs. He’s not interested. His mind is already on the scene waiting for them inside the athletic center.  

“Alright then, let’s get on with it,” Lestrade says as he leads the way. 

Inside, the medical examiner and his team surround the adolescent body. Lestrade stops to slip covers over his shoes and offers some to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on the body. His attention doesn’t waiver but he shakes his head. Sherlock is here for the puzzle. Although Lestrade is paramount to his continued access to crime scenes, he is not interesting or worthy of more than a slight acknowledgement. The DI is speaking to his team, but Sherlock isn’t listening. He is busy methodically scanning the room, absorbing details, and making deductions. He has completed half the room when the medical examiner collides with him. Sherlock’s mouth draws up into a cold snarl.  

“Anderson.” 

“This is an  _active_ crime scene. I don’t want it messed up,” Anderson taunts.  

Sherlock, ignoring the petty attempt to insult him, finishes his initial scan of the room. He steps toward the corpse and voices several deductions.  

"The body's been here overnight. No signs of compulsion. Likely he knew or at least trusted whoever brought him here. Though the place should have been locked all night..."  

Sherlock trails off as several possibilities flash through his mind. 

"Yes, we actually worked that out for ourselves, thanks!" Anderson sneers. "We're looking into all employees who could have had access."  

Pleased with himself, Anderson turns back to the body, effectively dismissing him. Sherlock is undeterred. Continuing toward the corpse, he addresses Anderson's turned back.  

"That's astonishingly astute, Anderson. Are you sure you can handle such an extensive review? Your brain must be exhausted after such a Herculean effort."  

Anderson wheels around and physically blocks Sherlock's access. He is furious. Sherlock looks around for Lestrade to intervene, but he is unfortunately occupied across the room and oblivious to the situation currently unfolding. 

Frustrated, Sherlock yells out to him, “Oh, hell! I don’t have time for this! George, let me know when your team realizes they have nothing to go on – you know where to find me.”  

Sherlock exits the building with his coat whipping behind him in a dramatic flourish. He hurries past Donovan, ignoring whatever unimaginative insult she has chosen this time. He slows his pace when he reaches the end of the street, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.  _Shouldn’t have stormed out of there. I barely even got to look at the scene, and I only glimpsed the body. Now, I’ll have to wait for Greg to beg me to come back._  

Sherlock lights the cigarette and takes a deep drag. He hardly feels the nicotine anymore and fervently wishes he had something stronger. He takes a few more pulls, then stubs it out. Not much point in smoking when Mycroft’s not around to be infuriated. Tucking his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff, Sherlock heads in the direction of Baker Street. Normally, he would find a cab, but he’s in no hurry tonight. He already finished the experiment with the ears, and he insulted Molly the last time he was at Bart’s, so he’s unlikely to get any new parts for some time. Furthermore, his analysis of the comparative growth rates of stachybotrys under variable conditions needs a few more days of incubation, and Mrs. Hudson is out of town visiting her sister. The flat will be empty and there won’t be anything there to distract him from the hateful stillness and inevitable boredom.


End file.
